Chapter Three #4
But as my pen begins to scrawl across the fresh page, I change course and make a full-on commitment: I’m going to write from the heart.
My secret person can just love it or dump it.
And, no matter what mess I create on this page, I will not tear it out.
This page is going to just be a reflection of me. Messy, scribbly, unedited me.
I’ve got a page and a half of restless script before I stop for a breath.
I’ve detailed the arduous process of how I set out to overcome my karaoke fear, live without regret and take on the challenge.
I also include the neurotic way I Googled and studied and prepared for my debut and how all of that articulated planning gave way to the utter feeling of freedom and release as the crowd cheered me on.
How free I felt, like I was floating. I’ve detailed things I thought I wouldn’t share with my secret person, like the tripping hazard, the blue eyes and strong fingers of that one guy, and the absolute need for Martin to be onstage with me.
I still remember the firm grip Martin had on my hand as we took our ridiculous bow, like our lives were permanently connected by that grip, and I can still feel the flex of his back muscles in my grasp when he hugged me and told me he was so proud of me and loved me.
I never want those memories to stop playing over and over in my head.
Some of these details are left out of my writing, but Martin is there for sure beside me, smiling big, in my retelling.
“I want to thank you for the adventure,” I write.
“This may sound silly, since I don’t know you, but I couldn’t have done this without you.
For some reason, I find myself driven to be a braver, different me because there’s someone out there rooting for me, my anonymous cheerleader.
It’s a weird sensation, but I’m thankful. So, thank you for the adventure.”
And then it occurs to me: my secret person said they would “write back.” There’s a dead-drop location for the notebook so I can get it to my secret person, but then they will, I guess, write their own response and return it.
I’m writing frantically again: “It’s time for your challenge!
Tell me about yourself. And I don’t mean your name or who you are.
That’s too basic. I want to know something about you that you would only share with me, your anonymous friend.
Dig deep for something big, nothing that I would know by meeting you, but something hidden deep inside that drives you to be the person you are, the person who would start an adventure for someone like me. I dare you to take that risk with me.”
I stare at the words. As much as I want this page to represent my truest me, I feel like I’ve crossed into new territory.
Like the words on the page are manufactured on one level, but also the purest form of my desire.
Maybe this journal, and this person, have unlocked a version of me that I’ve always wanted to be released.
I close the book and set down my pen. I suppress every urge to re-open the cover and read through what I’ve written to make sure it sounds right.
I am slowly becoming the new, unedited me.
I feel like the real me is there on that page and now it’s my secret person’s move. The ball is in their court.
I tuck the notebook back into the envelope and open my GoodWord app to memorize the details about the dead-drop and how to get this notebook back to my secret person.
The dead-drop plan is nothing if not perfect.
And, I feel like a secret agent. Here’s the plan: The lost and found at my gym downtown.
I create some of the details myself, but the plan’s a good one.
After my workout, I hand my envelope to the clerk and say, “I found this over by the squat rack,” and ask them to place it in the lost and found.
Simple. I have scribbled out my name on the outside, so they won’t look me up by name in their system and call me.
Then, eventually, my secret person will come claim it.
It’s creative if nothing else and nobody would ever know it’s not a workout journal or something.
I do find myself making prolonged eye contact with the clerk, like she knows something, and I intuitively scan the ceiling for surveillance cameras because they, for sure, will eventually know who my secret person is.
But, the mystery intrigues me and I’m just enjoying the secrecy of the moment.
I walk to my truck sweaty and happy after that workout.
It’s the weekend before my GoodWord app beeps again and I’ve got more instructions.
It just keeps getting more and more creative.
The journal, for all I know, is still at the gym, or gone forever.
I haven’t seen it since, and there has been no message about it.
I’m surprisingly not wondering about it.
And so, my app offers me a new challenge, thankfully less dramatic than public singing this time!